by Larry Bond
“Joyce Parker, Doctor. It’s good to see you again.” She offered her hand, and Patterson automatically shook it as she absorbed Parker’s presence. “I’m delighted to be part of this adventure.”
Silas pulled out a sheet of paper and consulted it, confusion growing in his expression. “I’m confused, Ms. Parker. I was given a list of people who were accompanying Dr. Patterson. You’re not on it.”
“I’m taking Art Lopez’s place,” she explained almost casually. “It was a last-minute change. He has a bad case of the flu, and State didn’t find out until early this morning, which is when I got the call.” She grinned. “I’ve been scrounging cold-weather gear everywhere I could. I had to wake some of my girlfriends. Am I late? Are we ready to go?”
Patterson eyed Parker with suspicion. “State was supposed to send a Russian specialist from the European desk.”
“Undersecretary Abrams said I could take Art’s place with the group. And you need a media specialist,” Parker countered. “Have you looked at the television coverage?” She offered a digital player with a news story about the collision. “The Russians are now claiming that they can’t find their sub, which they still refuse to identify, because a ‘mysterious’ U.S. sub is interfering with their operations.”
Silas snorted. “Their stuff is either still stuck at the pier or grounded.”
“The Russians say the search is progressing in spite of the weather,” she countered. “Of course, it helps when you’re not handicapped by the truth.”
An Air Force officer approached the group. “Dr. Patterson, we’re ready for your party to board.”
The C-20, engines idling, waited with a roll-up stairs at the fuselage door. Patterson, glad to be moving, set a fast pace and hurried aboard. It was supposed to be a rescue mission, after all.
An Air Force first lieutenant in olive coveralls greeted her. “I’m Lieutenant Neal, ma’am, the copilot. We’ll taxi and take off as soon as your party’s seated and the luggage is aboard. It’s a seven-hour flight to Orland, Norway. We’ll refuel there, then fly to Bardufoss, where you’ll transfer to an MV-22 Osprey for the trip out to Winston Churchill.”
Patterson was all business. “I’m assuming you’re flying as fast as possible.”
“Yes, ma’am. We have priority clearance, and we’ll do everything we can to get you there quickly.”
Patterson thanked him and he left for the cockpit. As the rest of her group quickly settled in for the flight, she looked over the plane. The C-20B was the military version of a Gulfstream III and was configured for VIP transport, with three rows of first-class-sized seats, four across. Behind them, a bulkhead and door led to a conference area, including a communications center and a galley. It was not lavish, but looked more like an executive boardroom than a passenger aircraft.
Once she was buckled, an Air Force staff sergeant gave them a familiar-sounding speech about oxygen masks and aircraft exits, then belted in himself for takeoff.
As they taxied, Patterson found her mind racing. She’d turned off her BlackBerry, cell phone, and laptop for the takeoff, but begrudged even those few minutes of enforced idleness. She was eager to attack the problem.
She pulled the hard copy of Russo’s brief that Matsui had brought with her and looked through it again. Patterson had given up thirty minutes of sleep the night before to read everything she could find online about Russian submarine rescue equipment, but the classified brief had considerably more detail and she needed time to absorb the information.
Russo was sitting across the aisle from her and noticed what she was reading. He grinned. “That’s the canned one-hour briefing I usually give. I really should have edited it down for the NSC meeting.”
“I’m glad you didn’t,” Patterson replied. “I’d only heard about a fraction of the ones listed here.” She paused, thinking. “I’m having trouble understanding why the Russians allowed so many accidents to happen.”
“Well, it’s not like they choose to have accidents, but their submarine production and maintenance philosophy makes them more prone to them. Remember, they’ve always played catch-up with our nuclear technology. They were desperate to field and operate their own nuclear boats. The losses were bad, but the alternative was American naval dominance. The guy in second place always has to take more risks to level the playing field. We’d do the same if our positions were reversed. In fact, we’ve done it, in other areas.”
Russo insisted, “They are not casual about their crew’s lives.” He gestured to the printout. “Turn to slide thirty. Look at the escape capsule.”
Patterson examined a cutaway drawing of a Russian sub, with a cylinder inside the sail circled in red.
“The capsule looks small in that drawing, but consider the size of the sub. The thing is bigger than a Greyhound bus. It can hold the entire crew— that’s over a hundred men, and has survival supplies, and an emergency radio to use when they reach the surface. The Russians put a lot of thought and effort into those things.”
“And it just floats to the surface?” asked Patterson.
“Yep, simple buoyancy. They close the hatch in the bottom, release the locking clamps, and up it comes.”
“Has it ever been used?”
“Once, when the lone Mike-class SSN, Komsomolets, was lost to a fire in April 1989. Most of the crew abandoned the boat while she was still on the surface, but the captain and four others weren’t able to get off in time as the boat suddenly foundered and sank. They managed to get into the capsule, but the sub’s trim was too great and the capsule wouldn’t release until it hit the bottom and she leveled out. Unfortunately, toxic gases from the fire leaked into the capsule and four of the five died.”
Russo shuddered. “It’s not foolproof, and they haven’t used it this time, for whatever reason. Submarining is a dangerous business.”
Patterson automatically agreed, maybe a little too strongly, remembering her own experience during the fire aboard Memphis. Russo’s expression of curiosity made her think of a new question before he started asking ones of his own.
“How long can they live, if they are alive?”
He shrugged again. “That all depends on how badly damaged the sub is, and how many of the crew survived. Ideally, they’ve got stored oxygen and power from their emergency batteries for some warmth. The problem is carbon dioxide poisoning. If the survivors aren’t able to keep C02 down below five percent, the clock starts ticking.
“Assuming most of the crew made it through the collision, and their emergency air-regeneration system still works, I estimate that they may be able to last for up to a week. Given Rudel’s initial report, the Russians have already been down for three days. Unfortunately, the weather isn’t cooperating and this makes things really sticky.”
“But Seawolf can ignore the weather,” Patterson stated, “and use her UUVs to find the sub quickly.”
“Exactly. But finding Severodvinsk won’t be the hard part.” His unspoken question went unanswered.
Their conversation had taken them through the takeoff and climb to altitude. The copilot’s voice over the announcing system announced, “Dr. Patterson, your group can unbuckle now and move around, and safely use electronic devices. Staff Sergeant Monroe can organize some breakfast as well, if you’d like.”
The moment Patterson stood, Joyce Parker, seated two rows behind her, stood as well. “Dr. Patterson, I must speak to you about the media response.”
“Ms. Parker, my only concern is supporting Seawolf and helping rescue Severodvinsk’s crew.” Patterson used a coldly formal tone that usually made others wilt.
Parker stood her ground. “I thought it was representing U.S. interests in an international crisis. Did you know that the Russians are claiming that the U.S. State Department deliberately fed them a bad location?”
“I’m not interested in fighting Russian propaganda.”
Parker showed Patterson her laptop. “Look at these headlines. The rest of the world is already calling this �
�the Seawolf attack.’ Our international reputation is being ruined, and we’re not doing anything about it.” Parker sounded deeply concerned.
The rest of the group had listened silently, but Russo now spoke up. “After Kursk went down, the Russians claimed that their boat had collided with a foreign submarine in the area. Early in the incident, they also claimed that they were in communication with the crew, and were sending air and power to them. Both statements were wildly false. Later they accused us directly of attacking Kursk, again a false statement.”
“What’s your point?” Parker was impatient with Russo’s observation, almost hostile.
“Nobody in the Russian Navy ever has gotten in trouble for lying to the media. It’s like the weather. We can’t control it.”
“Which means we have to get the truth out there.” Parker’s intensity was unnerving. Patterson could see that she cared deeply about the image of the United States, but her concern didn’t make it Patterson’s problem. Parker wasn’t even supposed to be here.
“Ms. Parker, we are going to have some breakfast, then I’d like Dr. Russo to run us all through his briefing.” Parker looked like she was going to say something, but Patterson just ran out of patience. “We’re done for now. Who else wants to eat?”
~ * ~
Staff Sergeant Monroe served fruit and pastries and excellent coffee, thank goodness. Patterson studied her team as they ate. No, they’re not a team, she thought. So far, it’s just a bunch of people together on an airplane. Like one of those disaster movies, she thought, but quickly squelched the comparison.
She had an empire builder, an intel analyst, and a naval officer who thought the whole endeavor is a waste of time. She had to make them work together.
During Russo’s brief, she listened and learned a little more, but also made up a list of action items, and watched her people. Silas and Russo had a running discussion during the brief. They were comfortable with each other, and seemed to respect each other’s expertise. Parker appeared interested, and took notes, but that could have been her journalist’s instincts.
Silas continued to be pessimistic about Severodvinsk’s chances. “Even with a good location, they’ve got very few rescue submersibles that can go down and save them.”
“They’ve asked for help from the British and the Norwegians,” Russo offered.
“But it will be days before they can get there,” Silas argued.
“The Russians don’t even want us there,” Parker commented, and turned her laptop around so they could see the screen. The Internet headline read, “Russians demand U.S. submarine to leave.”
“This article says they have proof that the U.S. is interfering with their rescue operations, and may be trying to destroy evidence of a U.S. attack.”
Silas laughed. “They haven’t even left port.”
Patterson had enough. They could sit here and argue their way across the Atlantic. “Let’s make sure of that. Commander Silas, please contact the Office of Naval Intelligence and ask them for an update on the Russian rescue operations.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll add a request for any Northern Fleet movements, if that’s all right.” She nodded, and Silas headed aft for the communications gear. Good. At least he could take orders.
“Dr. Russo, figure a timeline for a Russian rescue attempt, assuming that Seawolf is able to guide them to the spot, and a second one assuming they can’t. I want to know what they must do, where they have choices, and where they might run into problems.”
She turned to Joyce Parker, who volunteered, “I’d suggest a press release. We have to show everyone that we are taking action.”
“The National Security Adviser wanted the Navy to handle the publicity for this incident. Contact the public affairs officer at OPNAV and get copies of whatever they are releasing.” Parker looked ready to protest again, but Patterson added firmly, “This mission should remain out of the press as long as possible. We will have greater freedom if we stay below the radar.”
Parker nodded her reluctant understanding and turned to her laptop.
~ * ~
Patterson worked them for several hours, finding answers, building plans, and testing alternatives. She also tried to keep up with her own email. Monroe brought by a box lunch about halfway through the flight, but after that, she found herself waking up, covered by a blanket. Almost everyone was asleep, except for Russo, reading a paperback.
~ * ~
They landed at Orland, Norway, seven hours and thirty-two hundred miles after takeoff. “It’s a major NATO base, ma’am,” Monroe explained. “We’ll taxi over to the refueling area, pick up our passengers, and then head for Bardufoss. Total time on the ground, about thirty minutes, less if we can manage.”
“Passengers?” Patterson asked.
“Yes, ma’am. We received word as we landed that a van will be meeting us with some people who are joining your party.”
Patterson was surprised, but curious. “Do you know who they are?”
“No, ma’am, we don’t even know how many. The tower just said ‘additional personnel.’”
Monroe opened the forward passenger cabin door, and waited as the ground crew brought up a rolling stairway. Patterson could see a slice of the airbase through the opening: hangars, vehicles, and a low ceiling of slate gray overcast. We’re under the southern edge of the storm, she thought.
The clouds were moving, she noticed, and cool wet air swirled through the opening. “Staff Sergeant, can you please get me an update on the weather?”
“Of course, ma’am, as soon as our passengers are aboard.”
They waited another ten minutes for the dark blue Air Force van. It finally pulled up as the refueling crew finished. Whoever they were, Patterson was eager for them to be aboard so they could get moving.
The first person out the van and up the ladder was dressed in jeans and bright red and white parka. His beard and hair were streaked with gray, and his face was so weathered Patterson couldn’t tell whether he was thirty-five or fifty-five.
“My name is Arne Lindstrom. I’m with Marine Diving and Salvage. The Russians have contracted with us to help with the rescue.” As Lindstrom stepped aboard, he shook Patterson’s hand, but was then almost mugged by Russo, who introduced himself and began pelting the man with questions.
Behind Lindstrom was a twenty-something man in a suit. “My name is Hugh Glasgow. The base commander gave me permission to join your group.” He offered his hand.
Patterson took it, but alarm bells went off. “And why would you want to join us, Mr. Glasgow?”
“I’m with CNN, assigned here in Norway, Ms. Patterson. Colonel Ed Jenkins, the base commander, said you had space on the plane.”
She dropped his hand as if it was red-hot. “It’s ‘Dr. Patterson,” she said coldly. “How did you find out about this trip?” It wasn’t classified, but Patterson was alarmed to hear that others were even aware of her mission.
“Sources, ma’am.” He smiled. “It’s my job. I promise I won’t be in the way…”
“That’s absolutely right, because you’re leaving, right now. I’m not letting any press on this trip.”
“Colonel Jenkins authorized it.”
“Colonel Jenkins is not running this operation, I am.” She turned to her assistant, quietly seated and working in the third row. “And Jane, please remind me later to thank Colonel Jenkins appropriately. Staff Sergeant Monroe, please escort this person off the aircraft, and make sure he gets his luggage back.”
Parker spoke up. “Dr. Patterson, CNN could help us get a lot of good press.”
“Which I appreciate, but I’m not willing to pay the price. I am willing to work with the press, but we have to keep them at arm’s length.”
Two more people waiting on the stairs to board had to turn around and go back while Glasgow went down.
Once the reporter had left, an Air Force enlisted man in fatigues came aboard. He almost saluted Patterson, and did come to attention. “Tech Serg
eant Hayes, ma’am,” he said in a west Texas drawl that seemed entirely appropriate to his six-foot-two height and long, angled looks. “I’m a weather specialist. I’m supposed to support you, the sub, and the ship we’ll be aboard.”
As he headed aft to sit down, the final passenger stepped inside. He was stout, in his fifties, and looked a little worried. “I’m from NAVSEA, Doctor. Ken Bover. I’m supposed to assist with the repairs to Seawolf.”
“You’re a technician?”
“No ma’am, a naval architect.” As Bover answered, Moore motioned urgently for them to sit, and then turned to close the door. Patterson buckled in, and Bover sat down in the next seat, continuing their conversation.
“I was on TDY at Haaksonvern, the Norwegian base at Bergen. I coordinate NAVSEA’s support for the new Nansen-class guided-missile frigates. I was scheduled to conduct sea trials on Thor Heyerdahl when I got a call yesterday from my boss telling me to get here pronto and be ready to support repairs to USS Seawolf.”